


the right amount of sugar (how you like it)

by kiranxrys



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Comfort Food, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Garak Learns to Bake, M/M, POV Elim Garak, Tenderness, i wrote this in a haze but i think it's pretty cute..., most of the gang is here, set right at the end of s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranxrys/pseuds/kiranxrys
Summary: The storm cloud of war with the Dominion is casting an unfortunate shadow over Garak's increasingly infrequent lunches with Julian Bashir. The solution? According to Commander Dax - cake.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 20
Kudos: 145
Collections: Star Trek Fandom Potluck Collection





	the right amount of sugar (how you like it)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 Star Trek Fandom Potluck event.
> 
> The rules were simple: create a work based around food or drink or a place where they are consumed. Here's my result! Set towards the end of S5, around 'In the Cards'. Fic title from 'Coffee' by beabadoobee.

Garak no longer recognises the man sitting before him. He has all the features of Doctor Julian Bashir – the same smooth brown skin, same dark eyes, same standard-issue uniform in muted tones of black and grey and dullish blue. He eats the same worthy-looking salads for lunch, picking away at unappealing green vegetables and taking the occasional sip of Tarkalean tea to offset the distaste of his doctor’s choice in meals. They discuss the same matters, for the most part. Current affairs, station politics and the Dominion, the war, the war, the war. Literature. Often, they talk of very little at all, wordlessly opting to eat in near silence instead. Julian has even less appetite for conversation than he does for food. It makes lunch a rather dreary experience.

Sometimes, Garak can’t help but wonder whether they ended up with the _real_ Julian Bashir after that affair with the imposter and the internment camp after all. This man is as much a stranger to him as the Changeling ever was. He has the same face, but the expression is wrong. It’s far too cold and reserved, set firmly in a look of chilling detachment barely even softened by Julian’s rare smiles. He sits so still. All the co-ordinated precision he must have been holding back before acts to hold him rigid in his replimat chair, like a mannequin in a clothing shop. He doesn’t seem to have the energy to move any more than lifting his fork to his mouth every now and then, or glancing up and forcing a polite smile when someone greets him on their way past.

To be fair to the dear doctor, nobody is particularly jovial these days, least of all Garak himself. Without even a weakening shield of Federation-brand optimism to defend him, he can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of foreboding at their current situation. Annihilation lies just on the other side of a wormhole, and all around them – in Cardassian space, where Dominion forces bring disgrace upon a once-proud empire. It won’t be long. They all know it. As if the past few months have not been quite enough to be going on with already, the weeks to come are fraught and overshadowed by the silhouettes of Jem’Hadar warships. But poor Doctor Bashir seems to be taking it harder than most. No matter how hard Garak tries, he can’t draw so much as a laugh from Julian. He can hardly even capture the Doctor’s attention. It never needed more than a smile, before. A subtle suggestion and Julian would be his for at least the next half an hour.

It’s been more than two weeks since the last time they sat down like this together, in the way they used to before the Dominion descended on their heads and their lunches became tainted by the knowledge that Garak ate with the Changeling, all those times, and never guessed the truth. He’s ashamed to admit. In hindsight, it’s so glaringly obvious he’s sure Tain would’ve reprimanded him for hours on end for his blindness – if he were still alive, that is, and on speaking terms with his forgotten son. Garak knew something was wrong. Somehow, though, the truth never struck him. And the Changeling almost succeeded in destroying all of Bajor and ending the lives of billions.

There are many things in his past for Garak to be ashamed of. _That_ particular mistake is one of the nastier failures.

“And how _is_ that prion research of yours going?” he asks politely, managing to drag Julian’s gaze up from his plate.

“Oh, uh…” Julian gives a non-committal gesture, frowning. “Well, it’s interesting, I suppose. I think I’m coming closer to finding the evidence I need to give weight to my hypothesis about quantum dynamics. A few more months should do it.” His expression darkens further. His research will take months, he must realise, that they do not have.

Garak is rather lost for a reply. “I’m glad to hear such a favourable report. I’ve always said, Doctor, that your findings will no doubt make you a legend of Federation scientific development. They will be speaking of the name of the great Julian Bashir for centuries to come.”

Julian’s laugh is rather hollow. “Thanks, Garak, that means a lot. Fat chance of it coming true, though. I mean, who knows? I could be completely wrong in my theory. Besides, I have to actually finish the research first.” Unspoken is that unfortunate possibility – that he may never get the chance. “And I’m not sure the Federation would be particularly excited at the prospect of making a hero out of _me.”_

It would be insulting for Garak to pretend he doesn’t understand Julian’s meaning. The matter of the doctor’s genetic enhancement, his _augmentation._ He never seems to mention it explicitly, even now that everyone knows. Garak understands – years of lies, after all, do make it quite hard to tell the truth in plain terms. Starfleet may have decided to excuse Doctor Bashir’s genetic status for the sake of saving face or keeping the peace or whatever other reasons they likely gave, but they don’t want an openly augmented _hero._ People might start to get ideas.

“Quite, Doctor,” Garak replies. "Though, you never know what just might happen. These are unpredictable times.”

Julian snorts, distractedly running a fingertip around the rim of his cup. “You can say that again.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, hunched like the weight of Deep Space 9 is bearing down on his shoulders. His lunch lies almost entirely untouched on the table before him.

“Not hungry today?” Garak questions, setting down his own utensil.

“I guess not.” Julian sits back in his chair, seemingly giving up on looking interested in his food. “It’s been a long week.”

“My dear doctor, we’re only halfway through.”

Julian gives him a pointed look. “Thanks for that little reminder.” His voice carries a bitter edge, the one that Garak always does hate to be on the receiving end of. It’s not something he thinks suits the doctor very well at all. “God, and I’ve got Adash Tej’s surgery tomorrow. I don’t understand why he won’t just go down to the surface for the procedure. It’d make my life a lot easier.” Sensing the dark cloud, Garak decides not to reply. “But I suppose that’s not what us doctors are here for,” Julian continues. “I mean – have a broken wrist? A fever? Fair. But a small bruise? A scratch? You’d think after everything this station has been through, people would’ve learned to put up with a bit of wear and tear, but _no._ Doctor Bashir, I’m feeling a little nauseous. Julian, I sprained my ankle trying to play springball in ten-centimetre heels again. And don’t get me started on Miles’ shoulder.” He breaks off, glaring. Garak _had_ wanted to get Julian talking, but this isn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

“Tailoring is rather dull, by comparison,” he comments lightly. “And admittedly far less taxing. You can _imagine_ my surprise that a galactic war puts something of a damper on business. Plus, there is the issue of some… _unfortunate_ rumours concerning myself proliferating on the station.”

“I thought Miles had decided to keep that hush-hush,” Julian says, holding Garak’s gaze.

With a small cough, Garak finds himself forced to look away. “The Chief and his Ferengi protégé may be loyal men, Doctor, but they are not so accomplished in the realm of secrets as you or I. Suffice to say, I’ve noticed myself to be the recipient of quite a few nasty looks over the past few weeks. Hardly any more than I deserve.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Garak,” Julian tells him. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened.”

“That’s a matter, I fear, on which we may never agree,” he replies. “And as much as I enjoy our debates, Doctor, I think it’s an issue perhaps best left alone.”

Julian frowns again and shrugs. “Whatever you say.” He stares down at his hands, now clasped tightly in his lap, like he’s trying to study them for scientific anomalies. They sit in silence for a few minutes more, Garak on the verge of speaking again several times before deciding against it on each occasion. Julian seems so… disinterested. As if the whole world is distasteful to him. The doctor sinks into his seat, eyes becoming more unfocused with every moment that passes, and Garak notices the wanness of Julian’s skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sluggishness of each movement right down to the slow blink of his eyes.

Garak sits upright suddenly, cutting through Julian’s detachment and bringing him to attention. “If something is weighing on your mind, Doctor,” he says, leaning forward, “you may be assured of a confidential listener.”

“I know,” Julian mutters. “I’m fine Garak, really. I’m just tired.”

“I would say it seems like rather more than that.”

“I thought you said we should _leave it alone,”_ Julian says bitterly. “Whatever happened to your consistency?”

Garak fails to hold back a small hiss of annoyance, finding himself sick of Julian’s depressed attitude. Or, not sick of the thing itself, but sick of his inability to change it. Frustration directs his hasty jolt in Julian’s direction, held back only by the small table between them. “And what happened, exactly, to the Julian Bashir I once knew?” he asks. "That _spirited_ young man with such a... such a _passion_ for life?"

“Oh, I _wonder.”_ Julian stands abruptly, chair legs scraping the replimat floor. His salad lies forgotten on the table. “I wonder whatever happened to _him._ Look, I’m _awfully_ sorry, Garak, but I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll see you around.” He turns and storms across the dining area, out onto the Promenade. Ignoring the stares, Garak leaves the remains of his own meal to follow the doctor, tracking the muted blue and grey of his uniform around the edge of the replimat and into a corridor off the main walkway. People move out of his way with looks as curious and furtive and fearful as they were when the Federation first arrived, all those years ago. He pays them no mind.

“Doctor, don’t be in such a hurry!” he calls, struggling to modulate his tone.

Julian whips around, crossing his arms, and Garak is glad to see this part of the hall is fairly deserted at lunchtime. This confrontation is already unpleasant enough without having an audience to bear witness to it.

“What is it, Garak?” Julian snaps as he approaches. “I’m very busy.”

“That’s why you have hours to sit around _moping_ , is it?” he bites back, tone more scathing than he intends.

_ That  _ does it. “If I’m moping,” Julian says, “then that’s my prerogative. I’ve got plenty to _mope_ about, you know. Or do you need a reminder? Not only has my greatest personal secret been revealed to the entire world – nearly destroying my career and ruining my life in the process, I might add – but the Alpha Quadrant is currently on the precipice of _destruction_ from the Dominion, and like you, I have the good luck of getting front row seats! And that’s not evening _mentioning_ the fact that I was imprisoned in a Dominion internment camp for a month, meanwhile all my friends were here interacting with that- with that _thing_ every day!”

Garak steps aside to allow a harried-looking Bajoran engineer by, refusing to break contact with Julian’s dark eyes. The anger within them is a poor substitute for the delighted brightness that Garak was hoping to recreate. “Not _all_ your friends were so blind, Doctor. I promise only the genuine truth when I say I was well aware all was not as it should be with that imposter.”

“But did you do anything with that suspicion of yours?” Julian asks. “No. You weren’t paying that much attention. And I mean, who would? So I can’t be angry, really. Just- If you think you’re helping, Garak, you’re _not._ That’s all. Honestly, better my own best friends had _no_ idea I’d been replaced by a shapeshifter for weeks than guess, do nothing and let all of Bajor be destroyed in the process.” He looks away, casting a murderous glare at the wall beyond Garak’s shoulder. 

"My apologies, Doctor."

“Look, I’m... I’m sorry, Garak," Julian sighs. "I didn’t mean to storm off on you. The past few months have just been a lot. Too much. I’m sure you understand. And I’m sorry I’m not myself – I know I’m not. There’s just nothing to do about it. Everyone else is the same.”

That may be partly true, but no one on Deep Space 9 seems quite as… as _sad_ as Doctor Julian Bashir. No one else exists in such stretches of heavy stillness and silence, no one else speaks with so much weight bearing down on them.

“I really do have a lot to do,” Julian says, sounding empty. “I’ll get something to eat, don’t worry. See you around.”

Then he’s gone, dragging himself away down the corridor and around a corner, out of Garak’s sight. Garak lets him go. He fixes his eyes on the place Julian was moments ago, arms hanging limply as his sides. It won’t do. It can’t be like this. Compassion, he realises, with an odd twinge. Empathy. He would’ve laughed, once. Then again, he supposes he would’ve laughed at all of this.

“What was all that about?”

Garak glances sideways to see Ziyal standing there, frowning slightly. “Is Doctor Bashir okay?”

“He’s feeling rather down, I’m afraid,” Garak replies, taken aback but impressed by her strange ability to sneak up on people. He ought to ask Kira what exactly she’s teaching the girl. The Major deserves praise for her instruction.

“Someone should do something to cheer him up."

“Yes,” Garak agrees, considering. “Perhaps they should.”

** *

There is only one place on Deep Space 9 where Commander Dax is to be found on workdays between the end of third shift and dinner – the springball courts, with Major Kira, completing her recommended daily hour of exercise. Garak knows so from Julian, who has a never-ending list of complaints about the Commander’s careless injuries and her habit of presenting them to him for treatment whether he’s the doctor on duty or not. His notion of the sport is rather vague – he’s only ever seen a few of Major Kira’s games – but he gets the general idea. The courts, open to free public use throughout the day, are where he finds the female members of Deep Space 9’s command crew now. At least this time, Commander Dax seems to have opted for appropriate springball gear instead of an evening gown and impractical shoes. 

He steps into the sports hall with a pleasant smile on his face, repressing discomfort. His tunic is the old golden one he can never find the spirit to wear these dark days, only because he can recall Julian telling him it made him seem more approachable than blacks and greys. Wearing it feels strange now – almost unnatural. These clothes belonged to a very different Elim Garak, one of very different stories than a Dominion War and a fallen Cardassia. They were part of his mask, the one that has long since slipped away.

“Is that the best you can do?” comes Commander Dax’s yell from the far side of the court, and Garak stands back to watch briefly as the Major darts around and sends her opponent tumbling across the ground with a huff of pain. Dax cries something that doesn’t quite manage to translate itself from Trill through the UT, but Kira seems too surprised by the arrival of their unexpected visitor to come up with a suitably destructive Bajoran reply.

Crossing the court, Garak plasters his pleasant smile on harder and keeps his shoulders back. The Major removes her helmet as he approaches, revealing a frown. Dax’s expression is more welcoming, but then, the great skill of Commander Jadzia Dax is the power of her ever-diplomatic appearances. 

“Garak,” Kira says coolly. “What can we do for you?”

“Right down to business, as always,” Garak replies with a sigh, feeling Dax’s sharp blue gaze bearing into the side of his skull. “Perhaps I merely wished to come and witness the sporting talents of the renowned Major Kira?”

She snorts and reaches up to brush some loose strands of red hair from her forehead. “I doubt it. Out with it, Garak. What’s going on?”

He finally dares to meet Dax’s eyes, discerning and shining bright with the exhilaration of the sport and a new mystery to solve. “I require a few moments of conversation, Commander. If you have no objection, of course.”

Dax shrugs. “I can’t see why not.”

Glancing between them, Kira backs away. “Well, I’ll… I’ll leave you two to it, then. I’m going to pay a visit to the temple before I go back to my quarters for dinner,” she adds to Dax. “Feel free to drop by later.”

Once she’s gone, Commander Dax’s expression turns very serious. Garak supposes he’s not often the bearer of particularly fortunate tidings. But it isn’t a warning or a confession he has to offer today – it’s a request. He’d considered approaching Chief O’Brien for advice, at first, but several circumstances had held him back. The Chief’s emotional rigidness was one, though more than that were the memories of Empok Nor – the recollection of those few hours that ended so tragically, and by Garak’s hands. Better not to drag it all up again. Better to ask Dax. Aside from the Chief, she’s Julian’s closest companion on DS9.

“Is everything alright, Garak?” she asks, brow furrowed in concern.

“No heels today, I see,” he comments.

Dax glances down at her own feet. “Did Julian tell you? He wasn’t happy when I woke him up at three in the morning to fix my twisted ankle, I’ll say that. He was acting like I did it on _purpose_ just to ruin his day.”

“Springball at three in the morning?”

“Long story,” she mutters. “But _you_ wanted to talk to _me,_ Garak. What’s going on?”

“It’s the dear doctor himself who I wished to discuss,” he answers, smiling again.

“Why? Is there something wrong with him?”

“Oh, no, I don’t believe so. It’s only that- _well,_ he _has_ been rather in a rather low mood as of late. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Everyone’s been in a bad mood,” Dax points out. “I mean – you should see Worf! You can’t get through one shift in Ops without hearing him complain about the distortions in his Klingon opera recordings and how they’re ruining his life.”

“I don't expect the doctor to be _jumping for joy,”_ he replies. “I simply hoped you might be able to direct me towards some means of brightening his day, so as to speak.”

Her expression softens. “Oh, Garak, you know he’s as much your friend as he is mine. In fact, I usually think you know him better than any of us, even the Chief. I’m sure you must have some idea of something that could cheer him up a bit.”

“I have tried my best,Commander, and yet Doctor Bashir remains as gloomy as ever.”

“Well, you know what he’s like when he gets in a mood. I guess what you want is a gesture, then. Hm…” She tilts her chin, frowning as she thinks. “Why don’t you bake him a cake or something?”

He views her sceptically. “A cake?”

“Every year on his birthday, Julian always asks for the same cake," Dax explains, starting off towards the door. He doesn't like her tone at all. She sounds as if she's plotting something. "Plain chocolate cake, chocolate icing. No decorations, no surprises, just chocolate cake. I think it must be his favourite. I’m sure it’d mean a _lot_ to him if you made one for him, and it’s only a small gesture. Or if you don’t like that idea, why don’t you take him to the holosuites? The Chief and I have been too busy to finish the latest _Julian Bashir, Secret Agent,_ so I’m sure he’d appreciate the company.”

Garak ignores that suggestion. He and Julian often visit the holosuites. It hardly speaks of a special, intentional effort to improve his friend’s state of mind. “If dessert was all the doctor required to remove himself from this particular depressive episode, he would be able to do so using the replicator in his own room.”

“No, but it’s the _effort_ that makes it special,” Dax explains as they step out of the sports hall into the quiet corridor beyond. “Every year on his birthday, Julian asks for a chocolate cake, and I use Benjamin’s oven to bake it by hand. It always looks _terrible._ Like someone took a _bat’leth_ to it or something. But the point is, I put the effort in. Trust me, Julian _loves_ cake. And it might be nice for him to get a reminder of how much you value his friendship.”

It’s strange, because, despite the Commander’s insistence, he can’t recall ever seeing Julian eat chocolate cake before. It must have been there at the infamous Dax birthday parties, but those nights are always a little too infused with confusion and kanar to remember the specifics. Certainly, Julian has never mentioned it to him. But unlike himself and the dear doctor, Commander Dax is no liar.

“Trust me, it’s the perfect gift,” Dax tells him. “Just ask Benjamin. Cooking something for someone you care about… it’s like nothing else. I know it’d mean so much to Julian, coming from you.”

He balks a little at her brazen reference to his _caring_ about the doctor. Especially in… _sentimental_ matters such as these, Commander Dax is far too perceptive for liking. A symptom of three hundred years of experience _knowing_ people, he’s sure.

Dax has never said it to him in so many words, but he gets the distinct impression she may have guessed his _preference_ for Doctor Julian Bashir. He first remembers noticing her barely contained curiosity after the incident with Cardassian security protocol, though afterwards, he would guess she’d known since the implant affair. Something she said to him passing by on the Promenade once – a suggestive comment about Julian, a wink, a smile. He knew he did a shameful job of keeping it to himself, particularly in those early years. It was hard when Julian was so enticing but entirely unaware of it, ignorant of his power over Garak and how much Garak _longed_ for those weekly lunches. He could list the qualities he finds attractive in the doctor easily – his intellect, his unwavering spirit and dreadful Federation idealism. His beauty, which only seems to have grown over the years that Garak has known him. For a long time, perhaps still, Julian was the only light in his sorry life. And he let that light consume him.

He gave up long ago on Julian ever returning his desires. They were selfish and shameful in any case, and a terrible danger to them both. If Julian ever noticed, he didn't say a word. He went out with Leeta for a while a few months ago, and there have been passing things with other clever and pretty young women every now and then. Enough for Garak to feel quite sure that there was never much chance of Julian being interested in _him._ Of course not. The doctor deserves a great deal better, anyhow.

It doesn’t quite stop him from flirting with the idea, though, on the rare occasion. Julian plays the game so _well_ – always has – debating and making clever remarks and catching Garak for every little flaw in his arguments. Or he did, until that cloud of darkness descended over Deep Space 9 and left its inhabitants as lonely shells. Garak needs it back. Nothing else will do anymore. It’s worse than the drug in the implant, which was but a temporary fix. Julian Bashir has him. He can't live without it now. 

Still, a chocolate cake can’t make that wound much more painful than it is already. It might even be enough to make Julian smile.

There is _one_ issue. Garak has been a spy, a gardener, a tailor – even a librarian for several weeks. He has never been a chef. Cooking is _not_ one of the many miraculous hidden talents in his repartee. And despite Dax’s assurances that it’s merely the thought that counts, he can’t imagine the doctor’s mood would be improved by burned or foul-tasting baked goods. Perhaps the holosuites are the safer option.

They arrive at a crossroads and Garak realises this is where their paths divulge. “Thank you for your time, Commander,” he says politely, squaring his shoulders. He has a nasty feeling she’s reading beneath his skin again.

“I’m sure whatever you do,” Dax says, “Julian will appreciate it. The past few months haven’t been easy on anyone, but he… well, he’s probably had it the worst. And, you know, I’m really glad I can trust you to be there for him.” 

Funny, someone _trusting_ Garak with something. Especially with the care of something as priceless as Julian Bashir. He glares into the empty space ahead of him all the way to his quarters, thinking hard. A chocolate cake. The Commander said no surprises – plain, simple chocolate cake. It really can’t be so difficult to make one from the raw ingredients, without the replicator. Humans must have done so for centuries. Garak’s been through far greater trials in his life.

A chocolate cake. He’s sure he can have it mastered by the end of the week.

* * *

After a long day of hemming dresses and accidentally pricking his fingers on sewing needles when people _insist_ on barging into his shop at inconvenient times, the last place Garak ever wants to go is Quark’s bar. Since its establishment, it’s been the biggest nuisance of life of Deep Space 9, except, of course, for Commander Dax’s occasional raucous parties. It’s everything Garak detests – full of flashing lights and irritating people, too loud for good conversation. And Quark’s attempts at Cardassian cuisine, despite the fact he lived under Cardassian occupation for so long, are terrible. Of all these horrors and more is he reminded of as he steps inside, already beginning to wish he’d ignored Dax's suggestions.

He wouldn’t be here at all if he didn’t know it was a favourite haunt of the station’s resident teenage troublemakers in the evenings, who are often oddly helpful when it comes to acquiring… _rare_ items. He remembers once asking how they managed to get a hold of such high-quality Tholian silk, only for Jake Sisko to grin and reply, _oh, we have our sources._ Cocoa and chicken eggs should be child's play to them. 

The establishment is quite crowded tonight, but young Sisko and his Ferengi friend are up at the bar as always, talking to Quark over glasses of the dreaded root beer. Nog makes himself scarce the moment he notices Garak’s arrival, muttering something to Jake before disappearing in the direction of the bathrooms. Garak steps around a pair of Bajoran officers to take Nog’s abandoned chair, nodding at Jake in greeting and pointedly ignoring Quark’s immediate onslaught of offers for drinks. He’s not in the mood for kanar today. His business is far too important.

“Garak, what is it I can do for you?” Jake asks with a winning smile, those his tone is a little more reserved than usual. Fair enough. Garak did recently came close to murdering his best friend. It’s not a good look, even if there _were_ extenuating circumstances.

“Only a small job, this time,” Garak tells him. “And given your father’s… _culinary_ leanings, it shouldn’t prove too difficult.”

Jake sits forward, nodding. “What do you need? Also, just a heads up, but we’re charging higher rates right now if you want your request to make it to the top of our list of priorities. We’ve been getting a _lot_ of demand for business lately.”

Quark, who seems determined on making himself a part of the conversation, lets out a loud, wistful sigh and leans over the bar between them. “You two make me so proud,” he declares. “You know, given the way my idiot brother raised that kid, I never thought he’d have a proper head for business. And after he joined Starfleet, I mean-”

“Yes,” Garak says, interrupting, “that’s all very interesting. Now-"

“I take it it’s cooking materials you’re after?” Quark interjects. “Equipment? Ingredients? You know we offer a _very_ high-quality range of supplies right here in Quark’s, if you’d care to take a look.”

Garak fixes him with a sharp look. “I would trust the quality of your merchandise as much as I trust the fairness of your Dabo tables, Quark, which is to say not at all. I still haven’t forgotten that faulty magnifying equipment you sold me.”

“How you wound me,” Quark sighs, putting a hand over his heart. “And to think I’m but a simple businessman, trying to give back to the community.”

“Unfortunately, I have no need of a _businessman,”_ he replies.

Quark grins. “No, but it _sounds_ like you might just need a chef. You know, I used to be a cook aboard-”

“Look, Quark, stop trying to steal our business,” Jake says loudly.

The Ferengi sighs again and raises his hands in defeat. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”

_ “Garak?  _ What are _you_ doing here?”

Just the sound of that voice is enough to throw Garak off course, to steal away the words beneath his tongue and leave him momentarily defenceless. The doctor has a true _knack_ for showing up at timely moments. To Garak, he looks even worse than he did the day before, as if it’s now been two nights he’s gone without sleep instead of just one. The slightly dazed expression of his face adds to the impression of the lost man, the wanderer. Jake seems to notice the uncomfortable tension – the lingering memory of the less than amicable way in which Garak and Julian last interacted – and abandons his chair muttering something about finding Nog.

“I will send you the list of everything I require,” Garak says. “I would appreciate it if the items in question could be brought to my quarters as soon as possible. Payment on delivery, but I _shall_ be generous.”

Jake gives him a brief nod and disappears.

“What was all that about?” Julian asks, taking Jake’s now empty seat with some difficulty. He seems to be having co-ordination issues, perching himself on the barstool with his upper body slumped across the counter.

“Already indulged tonight, have we, my dear doctor?” Garak observes, turning away to avoid Julian’s gaze. Those unfortunate desires of his from months ago seem to be resurfacing in full force, and every moment he looks at the doctor works to further fill his head with impossible dreams. Perhaps it’s the hopelessness of their current situation, the insurmountable odds of victory against the Dominion. Perhaps it’s that the past few weeks have made him feel far from Julian, and that is the one thing in the universe he cannot abide.

Usually, he might expect Julian to laugh or tease him back, but the doctor just sighs and sinks down further onto the bar. “Only a little,” he replies, voice muffled.

“Doctor, as I may advise you from personal experience, _drinking away_ one’s troubles is never the appropriate response.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Julian frown. “Just one trouble tonight.”

“Hm? Your latest female companion swept off her feet by another Ferengi engineer?”

“Very _funny,_ Garak,” Julian mutters. “No, though-” He breaks off to let out a rather cold laugh. “You’re not too far from the truth, in a way.”

“Any drinks, gentlemen?” Quark offers, reappearing out of nowhere. “I _just_ got my hands on a few bottles of Kessian whiskey, _very_ exclusive.”

Garak gives the Ferengi bartender a curt shake of his head, with an added glare for good measure. Sighing, Julian props his chin up in his palm and looks beyond Quark at the variety of brightly coloured bottles. “Er… you know what? Let’s go the whole way. Vodka and lemonade, double shots. And it’d _better_ be the cheap stuff.”

“Whatever you say,” Quark grumbles. “One of those nights, is it, Doctor? The last time you ordered vodka and lemonade was when Leeta decided to leave you for that ridiculous brother of mine. I had _no_ idea you humans could be broken up with even when you’re already single and pitifully alone.”

“Who says I’m not going out with anyone?” Julian counters. He takes a sip of his sparkling clear drink and winces.

“Trust me, it’s a bartender’s business to know these things,” Quark replies, moving away to serve another patron.

“You never answered my question,” Julian says suddenly, turning to Garak and reaching across to land a hand on his wrist where it rests on the counter. Garak freezes. He hasn’t touched the doctor since they were in the Dominion internment camp, all those months ago. Since Julian dragged him out of that access hatch, laid him down on the bed and rested the back of his hand against Garak’s cheek, feeling the scaled skin. Pressed his fingers to Garak’s neck, searching for the panicked pulse. Julian must be too dazed by his previous drink to notice. Or maybe it would never occur to him at all. He thinks of Garak as simply a friend, nothing more. Still, Garak carefully extracts his wrist from beneath Julian’s fingertips, trying not to notice the flicker of hurt that crosses the dear doctor’s face at the rejection.

“Oh, it’s nothing to concern yourself with, Doctor,” he answers. “Just a small transaction between myself and Jake.”

“You know, he’s been awfully helpful lately,” Julian remarks. “Him and Nog both. They’ve promised to be rescue Kukalaka for me.”

“Kukalaka…? Your… teddy bear, I believe?”

“Mm,” Julian mumbles around a large gulp of his drink. “Leeta never gave him back after we broke up. She never really understood…” He trails off, staring into his glass with a morose expression. “Garak, I…”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Never mind.” Given Julian appears almost on the verge of exhausted tears now, he doesn’t press for an explanation. He can’t recall a time he ever saw the doctor cry – not even in the internment camp, not even after he returned from visiting his father in prison for the first time. It doesn’t seem necessary to begin now.

“Nothing makes me happy anymore,” Julian says, breaking the silence between them. “Even my prion research or- or darts with Miles, or seeing a patient leave the Infirmary healthy and smiling. It’s like my brain has forgotten how to do it. Make me happy, I mean. I keep waiting for something to happen to… well, jolt me out of it, I suppose. Like all of a sudden I’ll just see the light and the whole world will become all _bright_ and _joyous_ again. I just… I just feel so _empty_ , Garak. Not even that miserable or anything. Nothing is a surprise. It’s all in monotone, like those old Earths films they used to make in black and white. Without trying to sound too melodramatic, of course," he adds, bitterness returning. "I imagine that’s all a bit _sentimental_ for you, isn’t it? I forgot who I was talking to. Elim Garak, man of _professionalism”_

“My dear doctor, I do hope you don’t imagine me to be devoid of _all_ feeling.”

“No, but you don’t care about emotions, do you? You just do your job. You don’t let them bother you.”

If only that were true. If only Garak could truly set aside his heart, forget his foolish affection for the doctor and accept the depressing reality that with Doctor Julian Bashir, Federation hero, he never had a chance.If he could be so heartless, he wouldn’t be on a mission to bake a cheer-up chocolate cake for Julian, would be leaving this in the more than capable hands of Commander Dax or any of Julian’s other friends. He’s a selfish man. He wants to see Julian smile. He wants to see Julian smile for _him._

“I think I may turn in early tonight,” he says, repressing the urge to give Julian a touch of reassurance on the shoulder as he goes. “Do take care of yourself, Doctor.”

“I’m sorry, Garak.”

“Now then, there’s no need to apologise.” He allows himself a small smile. “Until next time.”

Julian’s words haunt him to bed hours later, contrasted with recollections of a young man in the replimat with the widest grins and brightest eyes, always keen and energetic. _Nothing makes me happy anymore._ He takes out his PADD and rereads the chocolate cake recipe Dax forwarded to him, rereads it until the letters are etched into his mind, the words _preheat oven to 160 degrees Celsius_ lulling him into eventual sleep.

* * *

Garak’s quarters are in a state. He’s beginning to feel rather glad he’s not in the habit of inviting people around for tea. Even during his most unfortunate episodes, he’s never managed to leave his room looking like _this._ There are patches of flour and cocoa all over the carpet in his makeshift kitchen, as well as several slightly sticky places where some egg or batter managed to make it onto the floor. It also smells distinctly of burning, despite the air conditioner running at full force for several hours to try to remove the unfortunate odour. There are no less than two piles of dirty dishes he hasn’t had the energy to walk across the room to the replicator lying on his table – leaving stains in the wood, no doubt. Suffice to say, baking a cake is quite a different matter to bugging a room or weeding a garden bed. No, it’s _far_ worse.

Despite the fact the recipe he retrieved from the computer database promised the most basic method for creating a classic Earth chocolate cake, the process has been well beyond _simple._ Most frustrating of all, he can’t seem to work out what it is exactly that he’s doing wrong. There’s always something amiss, whether it’s a complete disaster of spillages, burns and shattered mixing bowls or just a slightly odd texture or unpleasant final taste. He’s followed the recipe down to each individual letter and every time it ends up in shambles all the same.

Two days. Two days and five separate cakes later, and no success. If anything, they seem to be getting worse.The first one was edible, at least, even if it was a dry as the deserts of Cardassia. The other four were all resounding failures. It’s starting to get on his nerves. Elim Garak is not used to being _bad_ at things.

He tries hard not to think of what his old friends from the Order would say about him now. Even in death, Tain’s taunts and bitter rebukes seem to echo through his shadowed quarters, his lip curling as he sneers at the man Garak has become. Not like the terrified husk who lay dying in a Dominion cell, disoriented and murmuring, _I was very proud of you that day._ The same man who only moments before admitted the undeniable truth – _I should have killed your mother before you were born._ He can’t decide which Tain to believe in. One too familiar, the other too alien. Both dead now, either way.

Glaring down at the kitchen scales before him, he banishes all thoughts of Tain and the Order from his mind. That kind of petty sentimentality will never help to procure the perfect chocolate cake for Julian. It’s a selfish indulgence he can’t afford, not now when his attention should be all on the doctor. And the chocolate cake. Something was wrong with the amount of dry ingredients last time. He’s determined to weigh everything right down to the milligram to prevent it from happening again.

125 grams of butter. Softened. How much is the right amount of softness for butter going into a cake? Simply malleable? Or should it be melting in his hands? If he was using replicated ingredients, he could let the computer decide for him. But since everything has to come from the raw materials, it’s not so easy. The only way he could find to quickly soften the butter from the fridge was by holding it over the ajar oven door. That doesn’t seem right. He considered calling Commander Dax for advice, but he knows she would insist on coming over if he did that to be _involved._ And the last thing Garak’s reputation needs is anyone seeing _this._ Major Kira and the Chief, in particular, would enjoy the disaster. No one would take him seriously again, if they still take him seriously at all.

Two eggs. He frowns. Eggs are something he’d be happy never to see again, after all the trouble they’ve caused him in the past fifty-two hours. Little bits of the shells keep ending up in the bowl. His back aches from bending over the temporary kitchen counter set up in his quarters, trying to pick out the tiny pieces.

This is ridiculous. Garak aggressively sets down the mixer _thing_ he was trying to reattach to the stand with a huff and struggles over to the only clean seat remaining around his table. He can’t go through this many more times and expect to survive it. He can’t have another failure. It’s too much. A sharp burst of disbelieving laughter bursts out of him at the general insanity of the situation. Every hour of torment he’s survived through and the thing that ends up breaking Elim Garak is a cake. It would make for quite good comedy if it wasn’t also deeply embarrassing.

He can’t ask Dax. He certainly can’t ask Julian – he refuses to let the doctor hear a word of any of it until he’s ready to present the finished, perfected product. He grimaces. That leaves just one option.

* * *

“Mister Garak, what can I do for you?”

“Only a small matter, Captain,” Garak replies. “I don’t wish to take up too much of your valuable time.”

Sisko watches him in curious appraisal, fingers mindlessly running over the smooth surface of his baseball. “Well, go on then, you have my attention. Unless, of course, you’re worried someone might be listening in on us.”

Typical of him, to imagine this is a political call. “Captain,” Garak says, taking a step towards the desk, “I’m sure you’re aware of the rather low spirits among the inhabitants of this station as of late.”

Sisko sighs and sets the baseball down. “You’re far from the first to bring this up with me, Garak, though I’m surprised to be hearing it from _you._ I don’t suppose you have any _suggestions_ on how to raise the mood?”

“Doctor Bashir, in particular, is concerning me,” he continues, ignoring the captain’s question.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I consulted Commander Dax several days ago for her advice on how the doctor’s mood might be improved, and she suggested…” He takes a subtle deep breath to prepare himself. “She suggested a hand-baked chocolate cake – an apparent favourite of his – might be appropriate.”

A wide grin, so reminiscent of the one his son wears, spreads across Sisko’s face. “Did she now? The old man certainly has a unique sense of humour. Let me guess – baker wasn’t one of your previous careers.”

“I simply hoped, given your culinary wisdom, you might be able to offer some expert advice,” Garak says coolly, attempting an innocent smile.

“You know, I’m surprised by you, Garak,” Sisko remarks. “I know you’ve kept an eye on Julian over the past few years, and I’m grateful for that. I know he’s kept an eye on you too. But if you’d asked me when we first arrived on this station and you two became friends what I thought, I never would’ve imagined this.”

“What are you referring to, exactly?” Garak asks. He feels a little impatient, perhaps a result of the five failed cakes he’s been forced to throw out in the past two days.

Sisko chuckles softly and shakes his head. “I won’t _torment_ you with the details,” he replies, “but I _am_ surprised. Now, tell me – what sort of advice are you looking for?”

“The cake itself is quite simple – I was hoping for general tips,” he says stiffly.

“Well, when it comes to cakes, there’s a lot to say. Measure your ingredients carefully, try not to overmix the batter. Do you know how to check if it’s ready to come out of the oven? A metal skewer. Just insert it in the centre, and if it comes out clean, your cake’s done. Oldest trick in the book." He pauses, thinking. "You said you were making a chocolate cake?”

Garak nods.

“A few spoonfuls of sour cream, then. Just mix it in with the rest of the wet ingredients. It’ll stop your cake from being dry. My father taught me that one a long time ago.”

“Thank you, Captain, that’s- _more than helpful.”_ This interaction has been excruciating enough already. With any luck, these few small tips will be enough to save his next attempt. If not, he’ll have to turn to computer resources, which he’d hoped to avoid. He’s fairly certain Constable Odo reads all of his access history. With a polite bow, he steps away and turns back towards the door of Sisko’s office. Beyond it, down in the centre of Ops, he can see Major Kira and Commander Dax gossiping under Worf’s glares. Whispering about his mysterious visit to the captain, he suspects.

“And Garak?”

He freezes in the doorway, looking back to see Sisko sitting with a gentler smile on his face, the kind he never would’ve expected to receive from captain even just a few months ago. Odd, that. Odd that he’s more _one of them,_ one of Julian’s kind, than he ever was of Cardassia. There were no _gentle_ smiles in the Obsidian Order; there was no kinship or trust. It’s uncomfortable.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I don’t know what it was like in the Obsidian Order, or on Cardassia,” Sisko says, “but here, there’s no need to be _embarrassed_ by doing something kind for a friend. No need to be embarrassed by asking for help, either. We all need a hand every now and then. It’s what makes us… people.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Garak promises him.

“Just make sure that you do. I don’t want to be hearing that you’ve gone and broken Doctor Bashir’s heart anytime soon.”

“I can’t possibly imagine what you mean.”

* * *

The mess is gone. Well, most of it. In the low light of Garak’s quarters, the remaining cocoa stains in the carpet are essentially invisible. The burning smell is gone, replaced by the oversweet aroma of chocolate cake that reminds him of being at Julian’s birthday parties, though he never knew that was the source of the scent before. He’s pushed the oven and temporary kitchen counter he had delivered a few days ago to the far wall and wiped them down, erasing most signs of the struggle that took place. He’s considering keeping the appliances, at least for a few weeks. Now he’s had one small moment of success, cooking no longer seems so unappealing. It reminds him of Mila, in a very odd way.

A lifetime of practice works to keep his nerves under control as the minutes slowly tick by, growing closer and closer to 1600 hours. He chose an afternoon meeting time instead of an evening one in an attempt to ease both of their discomforts, given the atypicality of Garak inviting the doctor to _his_ room for anything. The image of Julian’s surprised expression keeps clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. He’d caught the doctor in the Infirmary at a quiet time, just after lunch break was over. He was working on his prion research at his desk, but he turned around the moment he sensed Garak’s entrance. If he didn’t know about the possible benefits of Julian’s genetic enhancement, he might’ve suspected they were that in tune somehow. For his part, _he_ knows well the sound of Julian’s footfall, the usual cadence of his breathing – those little details that _make_ Julian Bashir. After the Changeling, he was determined never to forget them again.

“What is it, Garak?” Julian had asked, frowning. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I'm quite well,” Garak answered. He was very aware of the funny look one of the nurses was giving him from across the room, like she was worried he was about to try something. “I only came to extend an offer of afternoon tea at the conclusion of your shift today, if you’re not otherwise occupied.”

“Oh, well, I suppose so,” Julian replied with a shrug, rubbing some of the fatigue from his eyes. “Where do you want to go? Not uh- Quark’s, I assume. The replimat?”

“My quarters,” Garak said. It was hard to restrain a satisfied smile at the way Julian’s eyes widened and he sat up a little straighter with this pronouncement. It always did please him to catch the doctor off-guard. “Come around 1600 hours. No need to get dressed up.” Then he breezed out of the Infirmary before Julian could get much more in than a startled acquiescence, mind set on the task ahead. He had just over three hours to succeed at his final baking attempt or be forced to suspiciously cancel on the doctor at the least minute. And that was unlikely to do anything to improve his mood.

1600 hours. The door chime sounds. The doctor is right on time, of course. Garak gets up from his chair in the centre of the room and approaches the door. He can’t work out why he’s so… _on edge_ just now. It’s not very professional.

“My dear doctor, good afternoon!” he exclaims. “How kind of you to drop by.”

Julian’s eyes focus and he manages a weak smile. “Hi, Garak.” His feet drag as he steps inside, moving past Garak in a soft brush of shoulders that almost seems intentional in a mindless kind of way. He pauses a few metres into the room. Garak waits.

“Garak, it smells incredible in here,” he says, taking in the scene. “Almost like…” His eyes find the kitchen equipment against the wall. The two cups of Tarkalean tea – something Garak has learned to appreciate over the years, ever since he worked out the right amount of sugar to include to suit his tastes. The slices of cake on the coffee table beside the teacups, freshly cut. Garak’s quite proud of it, overall. “You _didn’t,”_ Julian murmurs in disbelief. Garak follows him across the room to the sitting area, watching the doctor’s every movement, noting every emotion that plays across his face. Julian looks back at him, wide-eyed. “Is this…?”

“Commander Dax made the suggestion,” he says, gesturing for Julian to sit down. “She believed it might help to inject a little… _joy_ into your life.” Or, he supposes, help him feel anything at all. Even if only for a moment.

“I never knew you were one for baking,” Julian comments quietly.

“Ah, well, I aim to be a man of many surprises,” he replies.

Julian laughs, in those few seconds a whisper of his sadness seeming to slip away. “And you never disappoint. May I?”

Taking a seat a decent distance from Julian on the sofa, he waves a hand in the direction of the table. “Be my guest.”

Julian reaches almost gingerly for a slice of cake and places it on a plate, silent all the while. The doctor, so exuberant in his reactions most of the time, comes across as restrained now, and Garak wonders whether it’s only his depressed mood or something to do with _him_ and the chocolate cake that’s doing it. He hopes not.

He knows he ought to be doing something himself to stop Julian from feeling the full force of his attention – maybe take some cake himself or a sip of tea – but immature _nervousness_ is such a foreign emotion he doesn’t really know what to do with it. The cake tastes fine, he’s sure. He double-checked all the ingredients. The crumbs he tested were inoffensive. And yet, the sting of anxiety remains. He feels as if he’s making Julian an offer, somehow. Or a reparation. Something important, in any case. And where he once felt so certain he understood the doctor, could predict him like a meteorologist predicts the patterns of storms, now he simply doesn’t know.

“Thank you, Garak,” Julian mumbles, picking up a fork. “This is uh… really nice of you. I imagine Jadzia told you it’s my favourite.”

“She did. Though, given my less than perfect culinary skills, I suggest you try a piece before dishing out too many compliments."

“You, less than perfect at something? Did I hear that right?”

"It's been known to happen."

Julian breaks off a small piece of cake with his fork and lifts it to his lips. Giving up on distracting himself with watching the swirling steam rising from their cups of tea, Garak allows the doctor his full focus. If this backfires somehow, he’s going to be having strict words with Commander Dax tomorrow. She definitely won’t be getting a discount on that new party dress of hers.

For the first few seconds as he chews and swallows, Julian is silent, setting his plate down on his knee. Then he makes a noise. Garak’s initial thought is that the doctor is laughing, which would be odd to say the very least. The truth is stranger still.

“Doctor…?” he says, moving to sit a little closer. “My dear, I do hope it’s not _that_ bad.” He doesn’t know what else to say. This is, perhaps, the last thing he was expecting to happen.

Julian isn’t laughing at Garak’s chocolate cake. He appears to be _crying._ One hand holding the rim of his plate, the other reaching up to clutch at the fabric of his own collar, the doctor struggles to suppress sobs attempting to break out of him. A sudden _waterfall_ of tears seems to be streaming down Julian's face, one glistening droplet after another cutting silvery lines down his cheeks. He tries to wipe them away with his sleeve, holding his breath to keep it all inside.

Garak stares. “Doctor, please,” he insists, louder than before.

“No, it’s-” Julian breaks off again, voice cracking. “The cake is brilliant, Garak. It’s… perfect. A lot better than Jadzia’s.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Garak says. “Though, if so, may I ask why…?”

With shaky hands, Julian moves the plate from his lap to the table, fork clattering. He _is_ laughing now – Garak is sure of it – despite the fact the tears seem to keep coming. Julian buries his face in his hands with his eyes squeezed shut, half in mirth and half in misery. “I- I’m _sorry,”_ he says. “I mean it, the cake is delicious. I don’t know why I’m crying, really.”

“One must admit, it’s a rather ironic response to a gesture intended to have the opposite effect.”

Julian laughs again and nods, revealing a little of his streaked face. It may just be the glisten of tears, but his eyes look brighter and more alive than they did when he entered the room, shining in the warm glow of the nearby lamp. “You know that I- that I found out when I was fifteen?”

He doesn’t need to ask what the doctor means. “Yes, I believe you mentioned that.”

“It was my fifteenth birthday exactly,” Julian says. “That’s how I remember it so well, even now. It was the worst day of my life, and- and I remember my parents were downstairs, yelling at each other about it. Well, my father was doing most of the yelling. And I was up in my room realising my whole life was a lie and all I had was Kukalaka and… this piece of _chocolate cake.”_ He gestures vaguely towards the cake on the table, wiping more tears away. “It’s so stupid, really. But on the worst day of my life, it was the only thing that made me happy. My first birthday on Deep Space 9, Jadzia asked me what kind of cake she should make. I… I didn’t know what else to say.” He bursts into tears again, much to Garak’s woe. What would Commander Dax say now? Or the Chief? How might one of Julian’s non-Cardassian friends comfort him? Crying seems so beyond the doctor’s usual character, and he feels lost in the face of it.

“Doctor, I don’t mean to offend, but it might be useful for me to understand the cause of this… distress.”

“I don’t know,” Julian replies, voice muffled and unsteady. “I haven’t cried for _months_ , Garak. Not once in the Gamma Quadrant, even when they put me isolation for days on end. It’s just something about the cake, I suppose,” he adds, laughing again through his tears. “And you doing that for me.”

Garak dares to sit a little closer, being careful not to startle a vulnerable Julian by moving too quickly. He rests a light hand on the doctor’s knee and feels the warmth beneath the standard-issue black Starfleet fabric. “My dear doctor, it was the least I could do for a valued friend. These past months have been kind to no one.”

A bittersweet smile crosses Julian’s face. “Garak, I… I’ve been a complete idiot. For a long time. In the internment camp, in isolation, I had so much time to think, and… Day after day, I felt so alone. After a while there was Martok, and I- well, Tain was there, but he wasn’t really one for conversation. Not by that stage.”

“No,” Garak agrees quietly.

“I thought I was going to go insane, there by myself, not knowing where everyone else was, not knowing whether they knew what’d happened to me. It was selfish, but I kept wishing someone else could’ve been taken with me. And the more I thought about it, the more it kept coming back to the same thing, every time. I would’ve been happier with anyone, but it wasn’t _anyone_ I wanted. It wasn’t Miles I wished was there with me or- or Jadzia or any of them. I wished I could have _you.”_ He pauses for a moment, still not meeting Garak’s gaze. “And then one day, they dragged me out of isolation and there you were. I thought the Prophets must’ve heard my prayers after all. It’s so stupid, I know. But it’s why… why I was afraid of seeing you too much. Why I didn’t tell you at the time. You were my first real friend here, Garak,” he continues, voice hardly more than a choked whisper. “I couldn’t lose you.”

“Doctor, I fail to see how _any_ of this could cause you to _lose_ me.” No, it’s what Garak has always selfishly wanted – for Julian to want him in return, even if only to the smallest degree. So much of his life, he’s had no other purpose but to shield Julian, to protect him from the impossible dangers of the universe. Cardassia is so far away. Julian is so close. Just beneath his fingers.

“You don’t get it,” Julian murmurs. “You don’t understand. I…” Fresh tears well up in his eyes. “I don’t know how I didn’t realise it before. Maybe if from the start I’d… maybe if I’d _known…_ things might’ve been different. I guess it’s too late, now. We’ll never know.”

“Never know what, precisely?” Garak presses, starting to become impatient.

Julian drags his knees up to his chest on the sofa, as if trying to protect himself, and Garak’s hand slips away. He’s staring into the space before him – at the table and its plates of cake – and still crying, though more quietly now. “Whether you and I could’ve… made a go of it,” he answers after a long stretch of silence. Garak thinks he looks like he might just collapse in on himself.

He reaches over to put his arm around Julian’s shoulders, tugging him in gently against his chest. Julian’s frame is so slim and fragile beneath his uniform, shaking with sobs and the magnitude of his confession, head beneath Garak’s chin. Garak feels the soft splash of a tear against his other hand.

“If this is a pity hug,” Julian says, speaking into his chest, “you don’t have to, Garak.”

“Please, my dear,” he replies, shushing Julian with a tentative touch to the top of his head, running his fingers over the smooth curls. Julian seems to calm a little at that, and Garak wonders at the fact this is something he is permitted to do. “I must ask – what makes you believe it’s too late?”

Julian pushes himself up to meet Garak’s gaze, eyes wide and searching. The tip of his nose is just centimetres from Garak’s own. “Don’t joke, Garak. Don’t do that to me.”

Garak smiles. He moves his hand to Julian’s cheek, feeling the soft, warm skin and struggling to hold back a laugh. The situation is so unbelievable, truly. And to think, this is how Julian has him, in the end. In the most _human_ way possible. His old Cardassian companions would be mortified. He leans in and presses a shamefully soft kiss to Julian’s half-open mouth, feeling the tension slip from the doctor's body in his arms. There may still be much between them left unsaid, but Julian knows him well enough. He knows Garak is not one for making such gestures without meaning them. With his thumb, he wipes away a stray tear slipping down Julian’s cheek.

“We’ve both been really stupid, haven’t we?” Julian asks, tucking his head back under Garak’s chin.

“I’m afraid so,” Garak sighs. He goes back to stroking Julian’s hair, holding him carefully. “But we seem to have survived thus far… Julian. I’m quite sure it is entirely possible for us to make up for any _lost time.”_

Julian begins to cry again. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I think I’m- I’m only crying because I’m feeling again, or something. All I want to do is cry, that’s all.”

“Very well, my dear,” Garak says. “Cry away.”

Julian does cry, for what seems like an _hour_ until the tea on the table is ice cold and Garak’s shoulder is beginning to ache, until slowly the sobs and sniffles subside and the front of Garak’s tunic is damp from tears. Julian’s breathing steadies to an even pace. In and out. Reassuring. Garak doesn’t even notice him falling asleep. Crying does tire humans out, he knows. He remembers Julian advising the Chief once to simply let his young ones wear themselves out with tears. And Julian was already so exhausted when he arrived, has been exhausted for weeks. Garak doesn’t have the heart to move him when his head slips down into his lap, even though he really is quite hungry now. He supposes he’s slept in far more uncomfortable situations before. And with Julian’s body resting against his own, he hardly minds.

When he wakes up again, the doctor’s warmth is gone and the chronometer on his desk across the room tells him it’s the early hours of the morning. The lights are automatically dimmer now. But in the weak glow he still sees Julian curled up on the floor by the coffee table, legs crossed underneath him, as he picks away at a generous piece of chocolate cake with his fork. The smile he offers Garak in the darkness is sweet but tempered by a sleep-softened tenderness. The air in the room is warm and tastes of freshly baked cake and familiarity. Like home. 

* * *

Garak feels as if his life began here. In the replimat of Deep Space 9, formerly and perhaps one day again Terok Nor, opposite Doctor Julian Bashir. Julian looks a little different, of course, on a surface level. A new uniform, features calmer and a little older than before. Less boyish. And yet somehow, no less Julian.

“Anyway, you wouldn’t believe it,” Julian is saying, free to talk now his plate lies clean before him. “I thought they were just going to, I don’t know, _ask_ her for Kukalaka back, but according to Nog, they _broke into_ her quarters while she was asleep and stole him! Jadzia told me she was furious in Quark’s the next day.”

“Those two do have a rather unique manner of carrying out their business,” Garak agrees. “And egregiously high rates. I’m still searching for the latinum to repay them for their procurement of the baking materials I required.”

“Why not let me pay?” Julian offers. “The cake was for me, after all.”

“My dear doctor, I couldn’t _possibly,”_ he says, smiling. “Your funds are much better spent in the holosuites. Now, I believe your next shift begins in less than two minutes, as lovely as this little talk has been.”

Julian cranes his neck to check the clock on the wall and groans. “You’re right. If anyone bothers me with something trivial today, I’m going to set fire to something. I’m _this_ close to a huge breakthrough in my prion research.”

"I wish you luck, then. And will do my best not to cause any tailor-induced minor injuries in the meantime.”

With a heavy sigh, Julian drags himself to his feet, pausing for a moment over Garak with a thoughtful look on his face. Then, quick as a Cardassian vole, he bends down and kisses Garak on the cheek, an action he receives a stern but fond glare for in return.

“Doctor, what _would_ you commanding officers say if they saw you engaging in such public displays with a former Cardassian intelligence operative?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Julian says. “Maybe I should ask them.”

Garak rolls his eyes, accidentally catching the gaze of Commander Dax on the other side of the replimat, where she sits eating with Major Kira. She gives an irritating wink, leaning forward to mutter something into the Major’s ear. He looks away before Kira can turn around and pass her own judgement. Dax is delighted with this whole affair, of course. She approached him just yesterday with a wide smile and a remark about how if she’d known it would be this easy, she would’ve forced Garak to bake Julian’s birthday cake years ago.

“I’m dropping by in the afternoon to have some more of that leftover cake, by the way,” Julian adds. “So make sure you’re home, or I’ll have to use my emergency access code to get inside.”

“You could, of course, have simply taken the rest of the cake with you yesterday as I suggested,” Garak points out. “It would’ve been a far more convenient alternative. My customers are beginning to complain, you know.”

“Yes,” Julian agrees, “but if I had taken it, I wouldn’t have an excuse to drop by your quarters once a day, would I?” He lets his fingers trail down from Garak’s shoulder to the base of his neck, warm skin skimming along cool scales.

Garak fixes him with an exasperated look. “Please, my dear. People are going to talk.”

“I think they’ve already been talking for years,” Julian says, laughing softly. He glances up, casting his eyes across the crowded replimat and the bustling lunchtime life of Deep Space 9. “I wonder how much longer we’ll still be here,” he murmurs. “The Dominion-”

“Is hardly worth your worries now, Doctor,” Garak interrupts. “You have sprained wrists and headaches to heal, I have shirts to sew. The Dominion will no doubt arrive at whatever time that suits them. In any case, my dear – you have my word that _if_ and when such a time comes, you will find me at your side to maintain a steady supply of mended clothes and chocolate cakes.”

“That’s sweet, Garak,” Julian murmurs. “Really sweet.” He smiles, shaking his head fondly. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the organisers of this event for all their work and for reaching out to me - I had so much fun with this fic! And it ended up way longer than I intended, oops. 
> 
> If you'd like to try baking the chocolate cake for yourself, I've written the recipe up [here.](https://kiranxrys.tumblr.com/cake) Thank you for reading ♡


End file.
